Prowl
by Maus17
Summary: He secretly takes pride in it.


The soldiers vary in color, shape, and size.

He struts by authoritatively, optics squinted scrutinizingly as he passes them. Helms are either held high or bowed in respect, and servos are placed politely behind back platings, pedes tucked in behind the white line and placed next to one another neatly. Optics are unfaltering and alert. Paint jobs glimmer in the early rising of the eastern sun, gathering slight dew and giving the occasional squeak, cobalt blues and bright reds, golds and purples, and many, many more. He is met by strong and muscular frames, deemed fit of their designations when they are barked at him as he inquires. Tall, stocky, or lean and quick looking. Some are small, but none cause him to pause as he keeps walking and asking, nodding, or giving them the all too familiar once over before he continues down the line.

After he leaves, some lift their chin platings in pride, or simply stand as if nothing had occurred. Others sag in hidden and secret relief, shoulder platings slumping.

Then, one of them catches his attention, and he stops altogether, the clanking of his pedes on the metal floor silencing as he stares. Judgmental optics narrow into icy blue slits on his faceplates, and he leans in, towering over the dark shape, who is seemingly out of place in the line.

This one is small, scrawny, slim, and lean as a crowbar. His helm is held low, and his optics are slits on his face as he stares at the ground, as if it were of primary importance to him. When the commander nears, he looks up fleetingly and then lowers his faceplates to the ground again.

The commander wonders why in the name of Unicron he is even here. If anything, he sticks out in paint job alone.

He is a mech, like the rest of them, obviously. His paint is a sleek and piercing shade of black, streaked with glimmering slashes of gold and silver on his pedes and servos, decorating his small helm and framing his platinum faceplates. Not very tall, in comparison to the hulking behemoths that surround him, and compared to the bot standing next to him, he holds the semblance of a crowbar. He looks as if he can be bowled over with a tap to the digit, with those slim limbs and delicate-looking hands, the angled shape of the helm and spinal chain, the loose way he stands.

"Soldier," he barks firmly, looking down at the smaller bot with a relentless blue gaze. "What is your designation?"

_Crowded and controversial. _

_ The perfect description of the truck. Some bots are brave and form their own groups, staring conversations between one another by brusquely asking for designations and origins, carriers and sires... Others sit alone and look sorrowful, gazing out the cracks in the metal, trying to find out where they are. Frowns that could make a sparkling cry pull at their lip platings and their eyes are half shuttered in depression, helms hanging low, spinal chains practically folded as they double in on themselves. Still others glower as if staring down Megatron himself, optics slitted and cables beneath their metal tense and taught, ready to spring. Some fights break out amongst the quiet chatter, mechs yelling insults at each other, shoving away the ones who try to restore peace. _

_ Others try to hide their fear by trying to look proud, but he is humble and silent, sitting alone in a darkened corner. He blends right in, his shimmering optics the only thing visible in the dim lighting and isolation. His back rests on the cool metal, his helm bent forward slightly. The conversations and murmurings don't pass through deaf audio receptors. He hears them all, and discreetly chooses to ignore all of them. The mech is silent, jiggling and flopping loosely along with the truck, but never being knocked out of balance or swayed. He is one with the shadow, and immobile as stone. _

_ Inside, his processor is a swirling mess, and though he is not listening, he can confirm the chatter and noise, the tension hanging in the air like a metal curtain he is trying to avoid is going to give him a helm ache. He can feel it throbbing lightly behind his optics, but pays it no mind. In the battlefield, a helm ache amidst the cannon fire and claws, spattered Energon, cries and wailing...that's the last thing he will have to worry about. _

_ He knows this, and yet the expression on his faceplates is a blank one, a neutral one. Frankly, he finds no point in grieving. What happens will happen. His sire will be proud to have raised a mech like him, and his carrier will cherish him when all is said and done, cannon blasts and leaking wounds or no. Friends are either in another truck following this one, or they have already become one with the All-Spark. There are too many things to worry about and grieve for. It will drive him mad if he even tries. _

_ And to think that he has never had a spark mate. Or received the letter of enrollment to the Academy. Or...many, many things. _

_ Cold, detached, and unfeeling. That's what they must see, but it's not true. Solace is found in silence and shadow. He has taken time to learn that patience is a virtue, that silence speaks louder than words, and that watching the pinkish red clouds in the sky is not a waste of time. One merely has to look. Then again, no one really knows him anyway. He has been alone since his number was called, and throughout the long hours of training and truck rides, it's all the same. Isolation, and being left alone with his own thoughts. _

_ Inwardly, he is glad that no other mech has dared approach him. _

_ Well..there he is. Ta-dah. There's nothing special about him. He's just there. _

_ But does he belong there? That is his question. Does he, a mech who enjoys life, the feel of lugnuts and fine metal in between his pedes, the feel of the breeze when the west sun sets, the lights the eastern moon makes when it reflects off of Kaon- does he belong? Amongst these...Others?_

_ That is the thought that has been nagging at him the most. He is not one for uncertainty, or barrages of emotions hurtling through his chassis. But this one thought has been especially hard to dismiss. His optics blinked, and he tilted his helm to himself, ex-venting softly. _

_ Such is life, he supposes. There is no use on internally destroying one's self with frivolous matters. One has to confront what is put before him, and endure till the end. _

_ Like winning a war. How ironic. The mech almost smirks at this irony, but finds himself recoiling and squinting instead, shuttering his optics due to the sudden influx of light streaming through the back of their vehicle. When he readjusts his vision, he sees all has fallen silent, and every bot has gone still. Reverent and grim expressions behold the stocky, tall bot that yanks the door open and gestures to the outside world with his chin platings. _

_ "File out by number," he instructs silently, watching intently as every bot passes him without a word. Servos and pedes shuffle and clank quietly as each one takes their place, the air no longer warm and inviting- instead, it is cold and harsh, holding a foreboding feeling of repressed anxiety that each tries to stifle and swallow like a bitter drink. _

_ He stands in his place, erect and silent as a command is called, and they all move as one, turning and walking towards the shining metal building that awaits them. _

_ Mechs and femmes alike rush down the halls, their optics briefly scanning them before they disappear behind glistening doors. Data pads are either being read or checked in a rush, and they are ushered quickly, practically running down the leek hallways and turning corners so quickly, he is stunned by the fact that they never seem to bump into anyone. _

_ And then they come to the room. _

_ It is enormous, and darkened, the lights above flickering ever so slightly. It smells of rust, of oil, Energon, and of old. Of worn down, of hard work, of broken metal, of furnaces, of stomping pedes. It gives off an air of toughness, of harsh times, and of relentless cycles. He is silently awed, while the rest of them file in and their faceplates pale. _

_ A command is called, and they all stop, turning to face forwards, and await the inspection. He watches silently out of the corner of his optic as some are picked out of the line and ushered elsewhere, or as others get stared at, questioned, mocked, made fun of, tested. _

_ Though they are on the AutoBot side of the conflict, this does not mean that it gets any easier. _

_ Finally, the commander stops. He looks up, and meets the optics that seem to stare him right in the soul, hard and merciless in criticism as they take over his form and paint job. What else can he do, save for watch evenly and keep silent? The commander radiates pure power, and high position. He is here to make sure they are all worthy, to make sure they all belong. _

_ He has the power to answer his question, and he does not even know it. The mech blinks and looks up expectantly. He is taking much more time that he though he would, staring almost condescendingly. It is rather unnerving, and sets him on edge. He dares not show such a thing, however. _

_ It's rather obvious. _

_ Is there a reason why time seems to slow down, why he is trapped in the icy blue, the stern faceplates that glower down at him as if he has done something wrong?_

_ "Soldier," the commander finally rumbles, looking down at him, a hint of amusement pulling at his lip platings. Ah. He knows that look._

_ All makes sense now. _

_ "What is your designation?"_

_ His designation?_

_ The one word that means stealth, that embodies it, that summarizes his true nature and whole being in a single syllable? The word that is used to describe predators, hidden creatures of power, silent and deadly opponents? The word that is used in shadow, in shade, in hiding places and silent movement, in secrecy and smooth movements?_

_ Something his sire and carrier chose carefully when they beheld the sparkling in their servos, the thing that decided who he would be in this strange and twisted world, the five characters that molded his very spark. _

_ So that is what he wants to know. He wishes to know what he is called, what is uttered when others look at him, ask for him. A grim word, a serious word. One that doesn't hold much room for banter. One that embodies dark, and rejects second guesses and impurities. _

_ Silent, the mech lifts his head and stares back. _

He doesn't expect much. Coming from a bot like this, anyway. He doesn't wish to tease, or poke fun- just curious. Bots like him usually end up with the weird designations. But that is besides the point. Body language and reaction tells much, along with a designation.

He can read them all like a data pad. The commander watches as the young mech looks up at him and begins to speak, voice silent and steady, firm, and tinged with a bit of paradoxically humble pride. He knows his place, but won't be taken for a fool. Interesting.

This one is a keeper.

"My name," he states clearly, lifting his chin platings and staring unabashedly. "Is Prowl."


End file.
